Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Independence Day
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Mr. Gold has a great-grandson on Mars, but distance isn't stopping them from connecting. On the other hand, Shady Blue wants to break up the three musketeers. Cerise will have decide between obedience to her foster mother and friendship with Gold/romance with Dove. For @a-monthly-rumbelling, July prompt: "I'm so sorry I'm late."


**A/N. For a-monthly-rumbelling, July prompt: "I'm so sorry I'm late."**

* * *

" _Come mothers and fathers throughout the land  
And don't criticize what you can't understand  
Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command  
Your old road is rapidly agin'  
Please get out of the new one if you can't lend your hand  
For the times they are a-changin'"_

 _-"The Times They Are A-Changin'," Bob Dylan_

"He was up and dictating a letter to the system. When I inquired, he admitted he'd been working on the letter since 6 a.m. He'd already showered and shaved, with the help of the night staff, and he'd had his breakfast. He was sipping coffee when I came into his room." The androids have been programmed to exhibit five basic facial expressions—mimic basic facial expressions, I've always thought of it as—and Andy exhibits one now: a smile. If I didn't already know he's not capable of subtlety, I would call it a smug smile.

I can't resist a smug smile of my own. Three days after Father's Day, two days after I'd presented him with the video, and this is the third day in a row that Mr. Gold has awakened early, taken breakfast early, and gone to work on a project of his own: the three-minute message to Joey he'd send next month. He'd spent most of yesterday and the day before sorting through old photos and videos of his immediate family; there were thousands to select from, but space limitations would permit him to send only ten. He'd expressed some frustration in making the selections—when he'd rolled into the dining room last night to join us all for supper.

We'd been surprised, most of us pleasantly so (though three of the residents did leave the table abruptly, without apology and with backwards glares). Ms. Hua had scooted her chair aside to make room for him beside her and had shooed Darwin away when the 'droid had started to dish up a plate for him; she insisted on serving him herself. She knew, she claimed, how Mr. Gold liked his food seasoned (as if Darwin, who'd taken Mr. Gold his meals every night for twenty years, didn't). Mr. Gold seemed to have better control of his faculties as he managed to feed himself without spilling too much, and he'd spoken more than politely, almost warmly, to the other residents as he spooned up his mashed potatoes. Most of us replied with a little warmth, and made our own inquiries into his health and the pleasantness of his day, and it was then he stunned us all by expressing his frustration with the impossibility of choosing just ten photos from a hundred years' worth. "I would like your help in making the selection," he confessed.

After a moment of stunned silence, we all nodded and voiced our willingness to assist in any way possible. "I've narrowed it down to fifty of the most recent pictures I have of Belle, Joy, Gideon and Neal. I have to keep reminding myself, this is just the start: I'll have other opportunities to send more. And when he comes to Storybrooke, we'll have time for them all. It's just—" he paused to frame his comment carefully—"that I want to choose exactly the right pictures, you see? Not just the best photos, but the best photos _of them_. Ones that will reflect something of each of their personalities."

We murmured our understanding and I suggested he share the fifty nominees now. And so as we dined, we admired and critiqued each photo, asking the House to tag those we found the strongest contenders. But as each photo came up on the wall, Gold gave us its context, and before we realized what was happening—before he realized he was revealing slivers of his personal life to these people with whom he shared a house, but so little of himself—he was telling us stories that exposed his heart to us. Or glimpses of it, anyway; his heart is too big to reveal in one evening. I felt sorry for the three residents who chose to leave the table; they missed out on some great stories.

In the end we chose nineteen; Gold would have to make the final selection later. As the 'droids cleared away the supper dishes, and some of us brushed away secret tears, he thanked us with a thick voice and rolled back to his room. Ms. Hua then reached across the table to me and squeezed my hand silently. I wasn't sure what she meant by it, but for myself, I felt as though a ten-ton boulder had dropped off my shoulders and cratered the earth. I had to excuse myself and rush off to my office for a private call to Jo.

"His vitals are the best I've seen in months," I now remark to Andy.

"He asked for seconds at lunch." Andy glows. It's not possible—is it?—that he cares.

"And he hasn't gone into the Holodeck at all this week."

"He asked to see you, at your convenience. Some assistance with editing his letter, he said."

"I'm taking Mr. Herman to the dentist this morning. I'll drop in on Mr. Gold when I return."

"I could take Mr. Herman," Andy volunteers, but I shake my head. "He's got a dental phobia. He'll need some talking down."

To my continuing surprise—though I'm learning not be amazed by the changes in Mr. Gold—when I finally make it to his chambers (nursing a bandaged hand—a human bite can be a painful thing), my favorite resident already has two guests, Ms. Hua and Ms. Lucas, and they're sharing with him tea and memories. I'm a little jealous, but still proud of myself for affecting this change, as I gloat to Amy in my weekly report.

"That's wonderful, Cerise, but do be cautious. Too much change, too fast can backfire. But nevertheless, I'm proud of you, too. Both of you."

* * *

I raise my head from where it's been resting on Jo's chest. "What if he doesn't need me any more?"

He chuckles lowly. "Don't worry about that. Maybe he just needs you a little less. Which allows more time for you and me."

For which he earns a kiss.

* * *

"With some reservations," Blue begins, walking around her desk to seat herself, "and based on Dr. Hopper's report and your success with programming, particularly the mentoring initiative"—she tucks herself neatly behind the desk, staring at me as I sit, feeling small, in the chair across from her, "I have decided to rate your performance of this first year as 'satisfactory.' I will recommend that the board extend your contract for a second year."

I can't help but smile. I've worked hard for this, and despite my blunders, I think I've earned it. Besides, I've become so fond of the Arbor residents that I can't imagine working anywhere else.

Blue's index finger wags at me. "Before you celebrate, I must remind you that you have a long way to go before you're ready to work independently. I'm recommending that your contract be extended, but with the condition that you continue under the supervision of Dr. Hopper. I've already spoken to her and she has agreed to continue as your mentor." Blue glances to her left, where her electronic entry floats in mid-air, before she murmurs, "Gods know you need supervision." With a flick of her finger, she spins the floating document around so I can see it; a push between her thumb and forefinger enlarges the writing so I can read the report. I skim over the first paragraph—even if her name wasn't on it, I'd recognize this report as hers; the style is so stilted and the structure of the report, cookie-cutter.

She begins to rattle off all my failures and shortcomings, though, to be fair, she remarks upon the small improvements I've made in my demeanor and judgment. She takes relish, I think, in dragging up every detail. Maybe it's just that in my embarrassment, I'd rather leave my wrongdoings sunk in the past. I bite my tongue, literally, and force myself to listen, force my magic to stay cool, though my cheeks burn. I do deserve this criticism. Perhaps occasional reminders of my failings will drive away the temptation to backslide. She seems to run out of breath before she runs out of complaints. As she's about to launch on a fresh topic, something regarding Mr. Gold, the House buzzes her. An androgynous, posh-English automated voice breaks in, "Pardon the intrusion, ma'am. The president of the board has arrived."

To lighten my mood, I allow myself to wonder if like me, Blue has given her automated assistant a name. She hasn't given him a personality.

With a hasty glance at the antique pendant watch she always wears, she clicks her tongue. "Fifteen minutes early. Doesn't that woman own a watch?" She seems then to remember whom she's talking to, and her head jerks up and a warning frown forms between her eyes. I smile faintly, signaling to her that I'll keep her griping about her boss a secret. She stands, smooths her skirt, flicks her fingers at the electronic document, making it disappear, then comes out from behind the desk. She will go out to the lobby to greet the president—a guest of lesser status would be ushered in by Jonquil. "Read the review," she commands. "I've sent a copy to your office. We'll continue this conversation later."

I return to my office, humbled but relieved. I've lucked out this time. Or so I think until I remember the purpose for which the Fates created me. Then I'm not so sure whether Blue could fire me, no matter how much she may want to.

* * *

Blue's lips are drawn tight as, panting, I scurry up to her. Pointedly, she checks the time on her pendant watch. Her hair is perfectly coiffed and she smells faintly of distant roses—and, more strongly, of angry heat. "Eight minutes late," she mutters. "Is it the board you disrespect, or me?"

"I'm so sorry I'm—Ms. Hua had a dizzy spell—" Before I can finish my answer, she's grasped my elbow and steered me around to the closed doors of the dining room.

She pauses behind them, drawing in a deep breath and tugging imaginary wrinkles from the blazer before giving Darwin a crisp nod. He opens the doors for us (an entirely unnecessary and imperious gesture; the House, reading a signal in our name tags, will open any door for any staff member). She releases my elbow, raises her chin and pastes on a confident smile as she sashays in, me tripping along behind her. She exchanges "good evening's" with the members of the board, addressing each individually, beginning of course with the president. As we draw even with the first row of audience chairs, she gives a small jerk of her head toward them (also unnecessary, as I know where I'm supposed to sit: first seat on the left, across the aisle from Blue).

Once Blue has seated herself, the secretary announces, "It's time to begin." Notepads spring to life; the agenda appears on the walls; the president calls the meeting to order; roll call is taken, old minutes are reviewed and Blue, now posted at the podium, offers her monthly report. She is thanked—the board members appear satisfied with her numbers, including those regarding my mentoring program. The president calls for the next item on the agenda: "The question of renewing Cerise's contract. We have read her annual review and your recommendation, Blue, as well as Dr. Hopper's." The House makes these documents appear on its walls. "And, interestingly, several letters of support." The president flicks through these letters with a finger, proceeding so fast that I can't read them. This is the first I've heard of these letters. Were they sent to Blue or to the board? Why wasn't I told about them before?

"Three letters from parents—Stan Steinberg's, Ellen Szabo's, Michaela Cavanaugh's." These are all children in our mentoring program. "One from Mayor McIntosh, complimenting your community spirit, for your participation on the Immigration Committee. And a letter signed by all but one of our residents." Later, I'll wonder who the lone holdout is and why he or she didn't sign (I have no doubt about who sent this letter round), but right now, I'm flabbergasted by so much encouragement from the people for whom I work.

The president addresses her board. "I had dinner with Her Honor last night. She assures me her letter was unsolicited. By anyone. She learned of Cerise's annual review through reading our monthly reports. So I for one am inclined to take Mayor McIntosh at her word." Heads nod; Blue's head, however, lowers as she seems to be suddenly interested in her fingernails.

"Well, I think we have all the information we need," the vice-president comments. "Madame President, I move that we take a vote."

"Second," another voice supplies.

They vote in favor of voting, then they vote on extending my contract. My job is preserved. The president congratulates me and orders the secretary to prepare the contract, and like that, they're on to the next item on the agenda. My foot jiggles as I sit through the rest of the meeting. When it's over, each board member shakes my hand before wandering over to the sideboard for coffee and cookies (baked by Ms. Hua). "So what's next? What other ideas do you have up your sleeve?" the president strikes up a conversation with me, putting me into an awkward position: I haven't discussed yet with Blue any of my new ideas. I don't know the protocol here. The one thing I'm sure of is that if I discuss my plans with Blue's boss before I've made a formal proposal to Blue herself, I'll be asking for further trouble, which I certainly don't need. So I demur, with the excuse that I need to do some additional research before I'm ready to put forth my next plan. I bet that Jo gets put into awkward positions like this, too, but he's ten years ahead of me in social navigation.

As soon as I can slip out without being noticed (which isn't long), I dash off to call him. He's delighted but not surprised, he informs me, of the contract renewal, and yes, he might have heard something about a support letter or two, though in answer to my direct question, he assures me had nothing to do with any such document. "You earned every one of those letters, Cherie. They're rightfully and completely yours."

I toss my head. "Well, then! I'll take credit where credit is due."

"And to celebrate, _I'll_ take _you_ to dinner tonight." Jo snaps his fingers. "No, better yet, how about a little vacation? A long weekend during your birthday?"

"I don't—fairies don't have birthdays." It's one of the many annoyances that set me apart from my schoolmates as I was growing up.

"Yes, you do. Well, maybe not in the literal sense of the word, but there was a day when you came into the world, and whether fairies recognize it as a birthday or not, I do. July 15. Astrid told me."

I don't know what to say. Along with everything else he's given me, my boyfriend has given me a birthday.

"So how about a trip to Malibu? Mr. Gold owns some beachfront property there."

"That sounds wonderful," I gush. "For my birthday."

For the first time in twenty-four years, I have a birthday.

I'm going to need a swimsuit.

* * *

"Although the board and I have been satisfied with your work overall," Blue is saying as I sign my contract for another year, "there is something we need to address."

I set aside the contract and fold my hands in my lap (and bite the inside of my cheek). This will be a reminder of my rule breaking, no doubt. Yes, my conscience confesses, I have played fast and loose with some of the rules. Have completely ignored some. I hope that I've grown up a bit since then, but I suppose a reminder wouldn't be entirely unnecessary.

Blue leans forward in her chair. Her desk is a chasm between us, not that we need the physical reminder of how emotionally distant we are from one another. By leaning forward she brings her face closer to mine; it's meant to emphasize the gravity of what she's about to say. Well, yes, I'm listening and will take her message to heart. As best I can.

"Cerise, you are still quite young." Oh oh, any lecture that starts this way can't bode well. "Naive and, I must say it, sometimes immature, lacking in good judgment. It's my place as your guardian as well as your supervisor to help you find your path, the path you were created to follow, and to caution you against forces that would veer you off-course. Especially when those forces mean you ill will." She sits back in her chair, pondering a moment, choosing her words. "I'm concerned about your personal relationships. You are, I'm afraid, keeping bad company."

My eyebrows shoot up and a gasp escapes me.

"First, there's Josiah Dove. I'm not saying he's a bad man; on the contrary, in my dealings with him, I've found him to be honest and conscientious. But your relationship with him has gone beyond friendship, in my observation. Am I mistaken in my perception that the relationship is serious? That you may even be contemplating marriage?"

I don't answer. I'm too angry to speak.

She nods in self-satisfaction. "I thought so. Cerise, in a small town like this, where we fairies are in constant contact with humans, it's so easy to forget who and what we are, and why we're here. But it's been an inviolable rule for our kind, from the very first moment of contact with humans, that we don't. . . get too close. We have responsibilities that far outweigh any personal feelings we may have—and humans are a complex jumble of feelings. We can't allow friendship with them to taint us—"

"Taint," I echo.

"Emotions get us into trouble just as badly as they do humans. That's why it's forbidden for us to become attached to humans. The penalty for violating that rule is far worse than anything you've ever experienced: it's expulsion from the tribe." She lets that sink in. What she can't or won't see is that my anger and insult have built a wall around me that her threats can't penetrate. "And on a personal level, as your guardian, I have to remind you that as a fairy, marriage is out of the question. Any thought of it can only lead to heartbreak for Josiah as well as yourself." She fashions her features into a mask of sympathy. "For his sake as well as yours, break it off with him, now and quickly."

My voice trembles when I find it. "Is that advice or a threat?"

"I raised you, Cerise. I care very deeply for your welfare."

My knuckles turn white as I grip the sides of her desk. "What will you do, if I continue to see Jo?"

"It's not what _I_ will do. There are higher powers we must answer to. You're young; you need to see to believe. But you must take my word for it that those powers exist and are watching our every move. I have seen fairies get stripped of their magic as well as their wings for carrying on love affairs with humans."

What she doesn't realize, I suppose—and I feel a bit smug and at the same time cut off from her that she's so ignorant of me—is that throwing me out of the tribe isn't much of a threat to me. Even taking away my magic, though I'm beginning to see the potential for good in magic, isn't enough to make me leave Jo. She'll have to work harder if she's to scare me.

"Then there's the matter of Mr. Gold. A more dangerous situation, in my opinion. I'm sure you see him as he appears to be now, an old, frail man, but I would remind you he's still the Dark One. He's the polar opposite of everything we stand for. He brings chaos and destruction to the world, and since the beginning of time, we have been pledged to do all we can to stop him. Unfortunately, we can't rid the world of him, but we have and will fight him at every turn. The continuation of life itself depends on our success."

"If he's so evil, why do you allow him to live at Arbor?" It's my intention to remind her that it was Gold's money which built this Home, Gold's money which continues to put food in her mouth.

"As a wise man once said, 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' Here, we can control him. Or, I should say, control the evil forces that control him. I'm not entirely without sympathy for him, Cerise. I realize, as perhaps you do not, that there are multiple beings inhabiting that body. At one time, Rumplestiltskin was a gentle and good man. He may still be, but the Dark Ones that inhabit his soul would destroy this world just for the entertainment value of destruction, if we didn't control them."

"If _he_ didn't control them."

"Your job is to look after him, just as you do all our clients. But in the course of that duty, you've allowed him to worm his way into your mind, planting seeds of evil. I don't know what he intends—maybe nothing specific; maybe he's just amusing himself—but bit by bit, he's manipulating you to gain control of you. It's how he works. I've been watching him, ever since you came to work here. He gained your sympathy, then your gratitude, then your trust, then your loyalty. He confided in you, encouraged you, taught you magic, introduced you to the man you think you love. You believe him to be your friend. He's got you to break rules for him, which only brings you closer to his side. It's my suspicion that, since he can't access his own powers, he wants to use yours."

My hands are burning. I jerk them down to my lap before fireballs can form and burn holes in her desk. I can't let her know how upset she's making me. . . or how worried that somehow, she'll send Gold away, or find some other means to make it impossible for me to see him. I look down at my contract. Apparently she hasn't shared her "concerns" with the board, or this document wouldn't exist. This document is all I have right now in the way of power against her. She can't send me away; she'd have too hard a time explaining it to the board.

"Well." I fight to steady my voice. "Considering my responsibilities to him as his caretaker, what do you propose I do to. . . avoid his influence? I can't exactly stop looking after him, can I?"

"You will spend only as much time as necessary in his presence. When you go into his room, you will be accompanied by one of the androids. There will be no more outside trips with Mr. Gold. No more personal favors. Leave the chess games to Andy. Leave the teatime chats to Ms. Hua. And above all, for your own safety, Cerise, bear in mind that the Dark One's greatest power isn't in his magic; it's in his manipulation."

I'm on my feet before I'm aware of it. I blink to bring myself back to awareness, before I do something stupid. "Well. Thank you, Blue, for your concern and your counsel. I'll take it under advisement." I'm not sure what I mean by that, but it's certainly not she thinks I mean: she smiles in victory.

"Very good, Cerise. It is, after all, for your own protection." Her eyes fall to the contract, signed on two lines: one bears the board president's name; the other, mine. It's a deal she would rather have not made, but she's stuck with it.

I'm out the door without a farewell.

* * *

My cheeks enflamed and my lips locked, lest some vile words slip out, I throw myself out of Blue's office and march down the corridor to my own. Between her office and mine is the nurse's, and as I sweep past, I must be making a bit of racket because the three occupants of that room all look up in concern. I've interrupted their conversation and I should pause to apologize, but I don't dare speak right now: my head is crammed with nasty phrases. Later, when I've calmed down, I'll wish I'd had better control of my emotions so I could have stopped in: there's an exchange going on here between Amaranth, Dr. Marine and Mr. Gold. That in itself isn't alarming: Dr. Marine spends one day a month here, making routine checkups with each patient. But Mr. Gold's condition is far from routine.

I slap my office door shut, toss myself into my chair and with trembling hands, pour a glass of cool water. It doesn't cool me off. I want to call Jo to pour my heart out to him, but I'd only be interrupting his work with my childish jibberish. I swing my chair around to stare out at the garden, so manicured and clean, the flowers in bloom and sparkling with dew. I glare at them. My cheeks burn, and then my palms grow hot and I smell sulfur, and with a start, I raise my hands for inspection. Seated in my palms are two orange-yellow balls of cracking fire. I shake my hands viciously and the fireballs vanish. I have to be careful, now that I'm magical, I realize. My automated office assistant, Pītā, formerly Pierre, speaks softly in his Japanese accent: "Good morning, Cerise. Mr. Gold seeks admission."

Now the heat in my face cools to a blush. Gold saw my tantrum, maybe even heard Blue's diatribe. "Just a minute." I gulp some water, forcing my nerves to steady. "All right, let him in." I stand, drying my hands on my slacks as Mr. Gold rolls in.

"Good morning, Mr. Gold." I smile sheepishly, waiting for a sign of how much he's heard of the argument.

He doesn't beat around the bush. "Are you all right, Sparrow?" By choosing to address me by nickname, he's signaling me that he won't judge or criticize; his gentle tone shows me he's here to comfort me, not further provoke my ire by taking my side. With a sigh I accept those small signals and sit down again.

"Would you like something to drink, Mr. G.?"

He shakes his head. "I heard most of. . . ." he tilts his head to the left, meaning Blue's office.

"Yeah." I bite the word between clenched teeth. "I don't want rehash it, if you don't mind."

"I just wanted to mention. . . .Parents can be utterly unreasonable, particularly in the early days of separation."

"She's not my parent," I blurt, but he peers at me sideways, and that makes me throw my hand up in a stop gesture. "Yeah, all right, she taught me stuff, disciplined me, paid for my education." I point at him. "But when I was sick, it was Citrine who brought me soup and medicine. It was Astrid who walked me to school and tucked me in at night and went to my parent-teacher conferences. It was Coral who taught me to ride a bike and skip rope and play blackjack. It was Taupe who taught me the facts of life. Blue—she was there for punishment and lectures, not much else."

"Most of us are limited in our parenting skills. Still, we give what we can, and what we are lacking doesn't mean we love any less."

"Why are you defending her? She'd never defend you, on any point."

"Oh, little one, it's not her I'm defending; it's you."

His index finger rises from the arm of his wheelchair. He wants so much to reach out and take my hand; that's obvious in his facial expression; but he can't lift his arm. I come around to the front of my desk, perch myself on its edge so I can lean over to take his hand, and I can feel some of the tension leave him—and me. Later, when I recall this moment, I'll feel shame that I made this conversation about me, when his health is a far more important matter.

"On the first day of his first visit home from college, Gid and I had a terrible row. You'd think I'd caught him doing drugs or something, or that he'd caught me pulling the wings off a fairy. Which, for the record," he adds quickly, "I have never done. Though I have thought about it once or twice. Anyway, I don't even remember what started it, though what it devolved into was the traditional 'you never call home' complaint. Gid's come-back was that I was nagging and strangling him with my apron strings. But all that was superficial. What was at the root of that argument was hurt and fear. Hurt on his part, that I felt it necessary to check up on him; he thought that meant I didn't trust him. He said as much: 'And you were the one who raised me! You and Mom. My morals and my judgment come from you. Every decision I make, I hear your voices in the back of my head, telling me what's right and what's wrong. I'm going to screw up sometimes; you just have to accept that and trust that I'll fix my own mistakes when I can, take my punishment when I can't. When I need your advice, I'll ask; I know I can always come to you and Mom. But you have to let me go, Dad.'

"And that was the root of our argument for me, the fear that I was losing him. The fear was more intense for me than most fathers, because of losing Bae. It wasn't that I feared he needed my protection; it was that I feared that since he didn't need me, he wouldn't have reason to include me in his life any more. Belle, yes—I couldn't imagine that either of our children would ever not want to come home to her. But me?" His shoulders lift helplessly. "Growing up with the town monster as your father does not lend itself to fond childhood memories."

"I'm sure he didn't feel that way."

"You're right. _I_ felt that way about my own father and I presumed I wasn't much more deserving than he was. But Gid and Joy were never ashamed or fearful of me, and they continued to come home, long after they'd made places for themselves in the world. Love for me as well as their mother brought them home. You know the day I finally took that message to heart? It was the day Gid laid my first grandchild in my arms and said, 'Gabby, meet your grandpa. You're gonna love him, because he's going to be an important part of your life.'"

"That's a beautiful story."

"I'm telling it because I want you to know the fear that lives in a parent's heart, from the first moment his child is laid into his arms. Fear and love, I think, are inseparable. But there's an antidote for fear. We talked about this when we talked about your dread of using magic."

I remember that conversation well. "Knowledge."

"On that day Gid and I yelled at each other, Belle took us each aside to remind us of that. 'He needs to know what you're feeling,' she said to me, and to Gid, she said, 'Your father needs to know that you still want him in your life, even if it's at a distance.' We shook hands and apologized and promised to do better, and after that, we did. Cerise, even if she didn't live up to your image of a mother, I think Blue still has that same fear I had, and maybe you have the same hurt that Gid had. I'm not saying she's right to tell you who to befriend; at your age, you can be trusted to make such choices for yourself. She may have some small validity in her complaints about me." His lips quirk up in an imp's smile. "Even now, I'm a manipulative old SOB. But you should be trusted to see that for yourself and protect yourself from my machinations. And as for what she said about Jo—" Now his lips thin and his eyebrows scrunch. "There is no finer gentleman in this town. Any family would be smart and lucky to welcome him into their circle."

"Damn right. So, you're telling me I should respect Blue but not take her advice. How do I do that?"

"Knowledge, remember? Have you ever introduced her to Jo?"

"Well, no."

"Do you remember how nervous you were about meeting Jo's parents?"

"I got over that real quick," I grin. "His folks are warm and generous people."

"It may take longer for Blue, but give them a chance, don't you think? An occasional invitation to dinner. He should cook. Let her see him in his comfort zone, at the stove. And then get Astrid to invite you to the convent for dinner. Let him see her in her comfort zone, at the head of the table. She will never change her opinion about me: it's part of the DNA of the Blue Fairy and the Dark One to distrust one another. But if she sees more of you, reassures herself that you're doing well out on your own but that you haven't cut her out of your life, it will alleviate some of her worry." His fingers stroke mine. "To be frank with you, my dear, if you were my daughter and socializing with the Dark One, I'd worry too."

"But you wouldn't demand that I break away from my friend, would you?"

He has to pause to consider. "I'd want to, I truly would, but Belle, from whatever realm she's living in, would take me to the metaphorical woodshed over it."

* * *

We don't usually get together on a weeknight; we're both usually tired after work. But this is an exception that requires a face-to-face meeting and a bit of hand-holding. Jo, though still a bit weary from a long day at the bank, invites me over to his house to talk over my argument with Blue. He's jacket-less, shoe-less and tie-less when he greets me at the front door, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He's been baking an apple pie, he informs me; slicing apples and rolling dough helps him unwind. With the aroma of cinnamon and apples wafting from the oven, we sit down at the kitchen table to talk it out. He pours us tall glasses of cold milk and we munch on apple slices as I lay out the problem for him.

"I'm not one to come between a daughter and her parent, but—she's wrong. I might be looking out for my own best interests, but we're good for each other. I'm good for you, I'm sure about that. You think so, don't you, Cherie?"

"You are exactly what I need. You've expanded my world and balance out my flightiness. I'm better because of you. We're better together, I think." I clasp both his hands across the kitchen table. "Don't let anyone pull us apart."

"No one." He kisses my knuckles. "But at the same time—I love my parents. I wish you could have the same kind of relationship with your mother, and if that doesn't happen, I don't want to be one of the reasons why. We should try to see it her way. I think Mr. Gold is right: she's only looking out for you with the limited information she has."

"Blue has never had anything in her life but duty. This idea of a fairy dating a man is outside the scope of her experience."

"Don't worry." He pats my knee. "She's going to like me." He stands, rubbing his hands together as is his habit when he's formulating a plan. "Let's go call her, invite her for tea Sunday."

* * *

On July 1, at six a.m. (the earliest that the residents are supposed to be permitted out of their beds), Ms. Hua, Ms. Lucas and I drag our sleepy bodies into Mr. Gold's chambers, where Andy has tea waiting. "Were you awake all night, making last minute revisions?" Ms. Lucas teases, and Gold has to nod.

"I've decided to follow Cerise's advice," he says. "Instead of cramming a lot of information into three minutes, I'm going to tell one story at a time."

I take the liberty of squeezing his shoulder. "There will be time enough for all of them, eventually."

"When Joey comes home," he agrees. No one challenges his use of _home,_ though Joey has never set foot in Storybrooke.

"And the first story?" Ms. Hua prompts.

Gold maneuvers his wheelchair so that he's facing the wall. A tap of his finger on the armrest, and a face appears on the wall: a young and smiling Belle, her form nearly blocked from sight by a stack of books in her arms. "Of course," I hear myself murmur. There is only one first story to tell.

"If you're ready, sir?" Andy suggests, his hand hovering over a panel on the wall.

Gold looks to Hua. "Is my tie straight?" When she assures him it is, Gold nods to Andy. "Ready."

We fall silent and still so as not to disturb the recording as Gold speaks to the wall. "Once upon a time, in a city called Avonlea, there lived a princess whose spirit was as bright and beautiful as her cornflower blue eyes. This, my dear Joey, is the story of how this courageous and pure-hearted girl grew up to become the savior of her kingdom—and me."

* * *

Androids aren't supposed to break the rules. They aren't supposed to be able to. Yet, at the crack of dawn on July 4, Andy shakes Mr. Gold awake, a full hour before the residents are supposed to be awakened. And then Andy summons me.

I come running from my apartment, and when I learn that the emergency concerns Mr. Gold, I spin around, run back up the stairs to my bedroom and call Jo. "It's Mr. Gold!" is all I have to say to wake Jo, and then I'm running across the dewy lawns to the Arbors, and then gasping for breath, my sides aching, I throw myself into the lobby, down the hall, to Mr. Gold's rooms. Jo is a minute behind me. We aren't careful about the noise we're making. Is something awful has happened to our friend, we want the world to know about it so somebody can do something to help.

We burst in, only to find Mr. Gold, wrapped in his dressing gown, sitting in his wheelchair and chatting easily with his caretaker. His head, as well as Andy's, snaps up as we stumble in. If an android can look embarrassed, Andy does. As Gold cocks his head and asks for an explanation, Andy lowers his own head. "I'm sorry, Ms. Cerise, Mr. Dove. I didn't mean to cause alarm."

Jo kneels on one side of the wheelchair, peering into Gold's eyes, as I read the output from the chair's biopanel. Gold twists his wrist in Jo's direction, as if to swat him away. "What are you doing? I'm fine." He points to the wall, where an image of the NASA logo shimmers. "Look. I got a letter from Joey!"

I straighten—Gold's vitals are indeed normal—and glare at Andy, who winces. Gold's eyes dance as they dart from mine to Andy's. "Well, as long as you're all here, you may watch it with me. Andrew, make yourself useful and fetch us some tea. Play it again, House."

That Joey's got a grin that lights up the entire room. "Happy Fourth of July!" He waves a little American flag. After thanking his great-grandpa for yesterday's "call," he speculates that "the folks back home" might enjoy a close-up view of life on Mars. "I'll only have time to show you my house, for now, but eventually I'll give you the full tour. Now, houses here are very different from the ones on Earth. . . ."

When the three-minute tour expires, Joey promises much more to come next month and begs for Gold to "keep those calls coming. Signing out for now, I love you, Grandpa!" His hand wave fades, replaced by the NASA logo.

"Let's watch it again," Gold suggests. "But first—" He looks toward Jo. "As long as you're here, Josiah, make a note: I want to start a scholarship."

"Astro-engineering?" Jo guesses.

"With a specialization in Martian studies. If there is such a thing. We'll call it—"

"The Josiah Rosales Scholarship for Astronautics," I finish. What else could it be called?

But Gold corrects me. "The Josiah _Gideon_ Rosales Scholarship for Astronautics." He cranes his neck toward the open door. "Now, where's that robot with my tea?"


End file.
